


Fireside

by Guinevere137



Series: Life in Carvahall [1]
Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Family, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 21:05:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7330639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guinevere137/pseuds/Guinevere137
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finding that Eragon can't sleep, Garrow sits up with by the fire, trying to answer his questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireside

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: As usual, all rights go to the author.  
> Enjoy, darlings.

The fire, shockingly, was still burning despite the late time and the subsequent chill seeping through the house. Every so often, Garrow would lean forward, poking the flames' food and adding to it. One of the logs broke, smashing its brethren as it tumbled to its ashen doom. Garrow grunted in surprise at the sound. He'd just been about to fall asleep. That, much like the fire's current state, was a shock. 

Garrow hadn't slept in days. Not since Marian's death. Not since seeing Roran burst into tears beside his mother, while Eragon sat, numb, on the other side of the room. Eragon hadn't spoken much since Marian had fallen ill, and then even less when he was told his true parentage. Garrow knew the shock would where down eventually, and the questions would come nonstop, but he didn't have to enjoy this silence. 

Garrow leaned toward the fire, slowly, and tossed another thin piece of wood into the fire. The flames jumped on it eagerly, licking it and chattering happily. Small sparks danced upward, and Garrow imagined their light dancing off of his wife's face. He closed his eyes, picturing her smile, hearing her bright laugh, smiling as he picture her dancing with the boys without any music. A month ago, she'd been doing just that. Now, their picture-perfect little world had fallen apart. 

A noise startled Garrow out of his imagination. He opened his eyes, jumping to his feet as he did so. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward the rest of the house. The noise came again, and Garrow's eyes were drawn to the tiny figure by the door, shifting from foot to foot on the floorboards, causing the noise Garrow had heard. The boy brought his blanket closer to face, as if he were trying to hide. “Eragon!” Garrow breathed. The boy had barely spoken to him in days, and now here he was. Maybe his questions had become too much. “What are you doing up? It's late, boy, go back to bed.”

“Can't,” Eragon managed before hiding behind the blanket again. He shifted from foot to foot again, and the boards squeaked a little louder. 

“Will you cut that out? Your brother's trying to sleep!” Garrow hadn't meant to snap, but he'd been on edge for days. It was a miracle he hadn't done it sooner. Eragon took a step back. 

“ 'M sorry. I can't sleep. I was gonna get water...” the boy's tiny voice trailed off. Garrow looked over at their water pump. It was much too big for a six-year-old to reach; he didn't know how Eragon expected anything but disaster. And then he remembered the fire behind him, and how it was probably visible from Eragon's room. He had most likely intended to ask for Garrow's help. The man sighed, raked his fingers through his hair, and wandered over to the water pump. He grabbed a smaller cup from one of the cabinets and filled it half way. Eragon scurried over and snatched it away before Garrow had had the chance to fully turn around. “Thank you.” 

“You're welcome. Now go, try and get some sleep. We've got a long day tomorrow. And don't wake up your brother!” Eragon had been walking away as Garrow spoke, blanket trailing behind him, right up until the last sentence. At the mention of Roran, Eragon stopped, and muttered something back very quietly. Garrow almost hadn't heard him. “What was that, boy?” 

“I said he's not my brother. Mo-Marian told me so. Right before she—she--” 

“He's as much your brother as anything, Eragon. Just as Marian was your mother. We raised ya. For six years now, we've been nothing but good to you. Your birth mother being my sister doesn't change that,” Garrow tried to be gentle, but if he was honest with himself, that had always been more of Marian's department. When Eragon didn't turn around, Garrow sighed. “She loved you, you know. Just as much as she loved Roran. Always said, 'Love's what makes a family, not blood.' And she right. She was right a lot,” Garrow knelt down to the boy's level. Eragon turned around slowly. His water cup was mostly empty, although Garrow wouldn't be surprised if he'd spilled some. 

“What was my mother like?” And here come the questions, Garrow thought wryly. “My-my birth mother, I mean.” Garrow knew very good and well who Eragon meant, but he didn't say that. The boy had been snapped off enough tonight, he decided. Garrow nodded to the chairs beside the slightly-dying fire. The boy scurried over to them, abandoned his cup on the floor side one, and climbed onto it. He watched Garrow with eager brown eyes as the man took his time in joining him. Garrow sat down, thinking. 

“Your mother was...well, when I knew her, she was a bit of a free spirit. She'd always wanted to explore, to see the world,” Garrow chose his words slowly, carefully. He didn't want to give the wrong description; that would be unfair to Selena, but he also didn't to encourage Eragon to get the same ideas she had had. After all, hers had gotten her so far away from home, and into unspeakable amounts of danger. To the point where she couldn't even keep her own son. Garrow didn't want that sort of future for Eragon. “She was happy, mostly, except that she was never satisfied here. Saw her chance when a group of traders from the Empire made their way through. Said they'd take anyone who wished to volunteer their services. She didn't think twice. I didn't see her for years; not until she came back to have you. Haven't seen hide or hair of her since.” 

Eragon seemed to take this in, slowly, thinking. He stared at the floor, swinging his little legs back and forth. “What about my father?” Garrow had known that question was a long time coming, probably since Marian first indicated how little they knew about the man. Garrow had thought long and hard about how to phrase an answer. He never got too far. 

“Your father...well, I'll level with you, kid, we have no idea who he is. I figure he was probably some soldier your mother gave her heart too wrongly, but there's no way of knowing. Selena—you're mother—gave very little information of use when she arrived, and was always very tight-lipped when we asked. Eventually, we just stopped asking.” Garrow remembered how the town had freaked upon Selena's sudden arrival, how they'd just about had a cow when she left four months later, in tears, leaving her bastard child with her brother and his wife. Garrow and Marian have their own son, they'd whispered, They don't need that child around to burden them. Some of the wives said that Marian ought to send Garrow out into the Spine with the boy and leave him there. Marian had refused, and six years later, well, here they were. 

“Do you think he was someone important?” Eragon looked up suddenly at that thought. His eyes lit up with the hope that maybe he was the son of someone high in rank. Garrow sighed slightly, scratching his jaw. The flighty part of his mind noted that he'd have to shave in the morning. He looked back at the boy. 

“Most likely...”he started slowly. “Most likely he was probably a soldier. Perhaps one with a bit of money, based on what your mother was wearing when she arrived. He might even been a merchant. Maybe in Teirm or Dras Leona. I have no doubt she'd made it that far south in her travels. This is all speculation, of course, boy. You must understand that, because like I said, we have no idea who he was or what happened to him.” 

Eragon seemed to be...not satisfied with that answer, but at least placated for the time being. He sat back in the chair. Garrow watched his little fingers play with the knitting of his blanket, pulling and wiggling through holes. That thing would be destroyed if he continued, but Garrow said nothing. He'd bring it up later. Eragon tucked on leg under the other in the chair, making himself look even smaller by default. 

Garrow turned his attention to the fire. He tossed another log its way, and once again it roared to life. He watched with exhausted fascination as the red and blue flames licked their was across their new prey and turned it to ash. He thought about Selena and how she'd always loved to watch the fire. As children, they used to gazed into the bright inferno and make out shapes; people, houses, horses, dragons. Selena could spin a tail rivaling that of Brom, the storyteller from the village who'd shown up just after Selena disappeared again. Garrow wondered if Selena had ever met any storytellers or bards in her travels, and if they'd spent cold nights like this one by a fire similar to this one, spinning stories and singing songs. He hoped she had, because Selena always loved a good fairy-tale.

He barely heard Eragon say something again. Probably another question, his mind whispered, amused. He turned to his nephew, “Say something?” he asked. 

“Do you think they'll ever come for me?” Eragon didn't look up from his blanket-covered lap. Garrow startled. 

“Who?” he asked, thought he knew very good and well who Eragon was talking about. The boy shrugged. 

“I don't know...my mother...my father...both. Do you think they'll come back for me?” Garrow frowned. He knew they most likely wouldn't, simply because his mother was most likely dead and his father...their was a high probability that he didn't even know Eragon existed. Garrow sat back in his chair. Why does this child insist on asking such painful questions? He asked himself. In response, a tiny voice whispered, Because he's just like his mother. Garrow recognized that as true. 

“I don't think so, Eragon,” he murmured. Eragon shrunk down lower. “If they were going to come back, I'm sure they would have by now. But, I think your mother believed—and still believes—that this is where you belong.”

“I don't belong with her?” he demanded, tears in his eyes. “She really didn't want me, huh?” Garrow shook his head. 

“I mean,” he pressed his words into the air with gentle force. “I think Selena thought you'd be better off here. With us. Where you're safe. I told you, boy, she got herself into a lot of trouble. Imagine what your life would have been like with her—always one step away from danger in every direction, always looking over your shoulder. You would probably be dead by now! She loved you so much that she left you here, for your safety. It's better this way.” 

Eragon nodded slowly. He sniffed and rubbed his eyes with the heal of his hand. Garrow stood up. Outside, he could hear the village slowly coming to life, and could see the sun flirting with the horizon. “Go,” he muttered. “Get some sleep if you can. I'm going to go into town later, but I need you boys rested and ready to go when I call, understood?” Eragon nodded again. He gathered his blanket into a ball in his arms, and shuffled into his room. The door closed softly behind him. Garrow stooped to pick up his cup by the rim. It still had a bit of water in it, forgotten. He padded over to the window and poured it into one of Marian's potted plants. The sun hit the its leaves beautifully, reminding him of the fire. He walked back over to it and stomped the rest out.

**Author's Note:**

> Keep in mind, of course, that I'm working with the idea that this house is not the one described in the book. If memory serves, Paolini mentioned briefly that they moved to that house shortly after Marian's death. I'm working on the assumption that they have yet to move. Hence the indoor water pump, as well as the mentions of the villagers at the end.


End file.
